And Justice For All
by Doctrine
Summary: The year is 2012. The WWE has degenerated into a bloodsport. Murder takes place in the ring on a regular basis. The crowds are rowdy, and violent. No shows are televised. The catalyst for the change? The Fall of the Saviour, in the year 2010.
1. Chapter 1

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 1**

_**16th January 2012 - Monday - 10:00pm. [Monday Night Raw]**_

"All right! That's enough! The match is over, damn it! Stop it!"

A man wearing the black-and-white striped shirt that identified him as a referee frantically attempted to pull the fighter away from the man that he had been brutally assailing with a knife. The cheers of the rowdy crowd were deafening, with various chants of 'Kill him! Kill him!' popping up here and there. Fights had already broken out between several members of the crowd. At ringside, a girl, obviously drunk, was getting her clothes ripped off by the men sitting next to her.

No one interfered. No security guards were present. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was another _Raw _show. Things like these were expected, encouraged, and praised.

Things had been like this for two years.

The majority of the crowd remained focused on the ring. A beaten, bloodied man lay on the mat, unmoving. A large pool of crimson blood had collected beneath his head. His stomach bore several stab wounds, as did both of his legs, and his face. His own knife, stained with blood, rested a short distance away from him.

"Here is your winner, and your new WWE champion: Chris Jericho!" the announcer yelled into his microphone.

Chris Jericho, now a man in his forties, stood in the middle of the ring and raised his arms to the sky. He grabbed the championship belt that the referee presented to him, and raised it high above his head, to the delight of the crowd.

In the past, the WWE title was a prestigious championship that marked its carrier as the best Superstar that sports entertainment had to offer. It was held by the likes of Hulk Hogan, 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin, The Rock, and Kurt Angle. Nowadays, the championship was the crown jewel of a bloodsport. It represented the degeneration of sports entertainment. It marked its owner as no more than a brutish thug who had proficiency in the use of bladed weapons.

This was the new WWE.

Cheers still erupted throughout the bingo hall that had been booked for the event. Long gone were the days of wrestling in grand and glorious arenas, like the one in Madison Square Garden. Nowadays, they 'wrestled' in rented bingo halls. It was not televised. It was too violent for television. The few members of the police who investigated into this bloodsport had simply been bribed to look the other way.

Long gone were the pinfalls, submissions, and disqualifications. The rules of professional wrestling, which had long held intact, had been thrown out the window a long time ago. Now, matches were decided based on how willing someone was to take a life. The victor was the person who literally murdered his opponent in the ring. Knives, chainsaws, and other bladed weapons were the current weapons of choice. Chairs, ladders, and tables, the weapons of old, were considered too 'sissy' to be used.

Over a hundred people had died in the ring due to these matches.

The Women's championship had been abolished a long time ago, and female matches never took place at all. If the WWE had portrayed women in a bad light before, it was portraying them even worse now. The only purpose the female performers served was to participate in competitions where they took part in public displays of sexual intercourse. The groundwork for female wrestling, which had been laid by women like Chyna, Nattie Neidhart, Victoria, Trish Stratus, and Beth Phoenix, had been utterly decimated. The old, fun-filled bikini contests of the Divas had degenerated into sex contests.

Even the Attitude Era hadn't been _this _extreme. This was not professional wrestling. This was not sports entertainment. This was simply violence and sex combined.

The catalyst for the WWE's slow spiral into utter chaos took place almost two years ago, in the year 2010.

_**

* * *

**_

23rd August 2010 - Monday - 9:30pm. [Monday Night Raw]

The entire arena erupted as Chris Jericho appeared on the titantron. In fifteen minutes, he had a scheduled match with Elijah Burke for the WWE championship.

A week before that, Burke had, in an effort to break Jericho's spirit before the match, paid a visit to Jericho's father, and had broken the old man's nose with a vicious punch. Jericho went into a deep, dark depression after that incident. From that moment onwards, he kept to himself, brooding. Any attempts to reach him were futile.

However, on the day of the match, Jericho arrived at the arena casually. He was, strangely, in a jovial mood, greeting everyone he passed. Everyone backstage was puzzled. Some people even thought that he had gone mad. He dressed in peace, and never emerged from his dressing room. The only time his door opened was when he had given a tech assistant a video to be played on the titantron, which was the video that was playing now.

"This is a pre-recorded message for Elijah Burke," Jericho declared, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "I know you're watching this in your dressing room, Elijah. I want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you."

"When I returned in 2007, I came back to be a saviour. I vowed to save the WWE. Needless to say, I failed. I didn't save it at all. I was weak back then. I was too soft. That's why I failed. You know why I failed?" Jericho's eyes narrowed. "It's because people like you, Elijah, still exist in the WWE. You've even been made number-one contender to my title. You, a despicable ruffian, has a chance to win the prestigious title that I currently carry. When you broke my father's nose, you got me thinking, you see. I've realized my mistake, and now, I'm going to fix it."

The entire crowd was silent. No one knew what to say.

"I've realized my mistake. I should have known better. I was wrong. I was too soft. Tonight, that changes. You'll know what I mean, Elijah. I'm going to save this company. I _vow _to save this company. I'm going to cleanse it of people like you."

Jericho leaned in close to the camera. "And you, Elijah, are going to be my first victim."

The titantron faded to black.

* * *

Everything had been fine up until this point.

The entire crowd was in shock. The referee was staring at Jericho with his eyes wide open in shock.

More accurately, he was staring at the _bloodied knife _that Jericho was loosely holding in his right hand.

On the mat, Elijah Burke writhed in pain. Blood poured down the open knife wound in his leg, forming small pools on the white canvas. Tears began rolling down his pain-stricken face, as he slowly tried to crawl out of the ring, away from the madman with the knife.

Jericho wasn't done. He attacked Burke again with the knife. Then again. And again.

Fresh wounds were opening up all over Burke's body. Pink flesh could be clearly seen under some of them. His screams of pain echoed throughout the silent arena. The referee managed to break out of his stupor and attempted to get Jericho to stop. The fire in Jericho's eyes caused him to back away. As Jericho went back to work on Burke, who was desperately defending himself with his arms, the referee frantically called for security.

Arena security, all clad in black, filled the ring. They managed to subdue Jericho, and got the knife away from him.

"Why are you doing this?" Jericho yelled, as they struggled to handcuff him. "You side with trash like that? You're just as responsible as he is!"

Jericho continued screaming and yelling as the security guards forcefully dragged him back up the ramp. Some of the audience members were throwing up, while others were quickly leaving in disgust.

"I will save this company! I will be the saviour I was supposed to be!" Jericho yelled as he was pulled backstage.

* * *

"All right, I'm going to tell you one last time: I had nothing to do with what just happened! Look, we'll put an apology up on immediately, okay? This will never happen again, Ms. Hammer. You have my word."

Vincent Kennedy McMahon, the Chairman of the WWE, sat at a beautifully carved desk in his lushly decorated office. With his right hand, he held his cellphone close to his ear. He used his free hand to swipe away some of the sweat that had collected on his brow.

He was talking to Bonnie Hammer, the President of the USA Network. The WWE had been on shaky ground with the Network for quite some time, with complaints coming in every so often from several different activist groups that wanted the WWE taken off the air for reasons ranging from homophobia, racism, sexism, and ultraviolence.

What just happened with Elijah Burke and Chris Jericho had sent a huge torrent of phonecalls and hatemail straight to Bonnie Hammer.

"I hope I can trust you, Vince," the woman on the other end of the line told him, her voice completely serious. "I'm already having enough trouble as it is. I don't need your company giving me more trouble than I can handle."

"I understand," McMahon replied, his voice level with hers.

"Any more of those stunts, Vince, and I'm going to talk with the board of directors about dropping _Monday Night Raw_ from the USA Network. Watch yourself, Vince."

McMahon grew a little bit flustered. He leaned forward in his chair. "Need I remind you, Bonnie, that _Raw _alone is helping your network retain its position as the top network in America?"

"If necessary, we'll make do without you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." There was a click, and the line went dead.

McMahon had to restrain himself from throwing his cellphone across the room. He silently cursed, stood up, and started pacing around his office. He was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

The mahogany door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped inside. McMahon raised his left eyebrow, and extended his left hand. When his handshake was not returned, McMahon cleared his throat, and withdrew his hand. He sat back down, and reclined slightly in his chair, motioning for his visitor to sit. His visitor hesitated slightly, before nodding and taking a seat opposite McMahon.

"Well, John, what can I do for you?"

The man who sat opposite McMahon, John Cena, rested his elbows on the table and stared straight into McMahon's eyes.

"I want to know exactly what you're going to do."

McMahon sighed. "I'm assuming you're talking about Chris Jericho?"

Cena nodded. "I want to know what you plan on doing to him. That maniac just stabbed another Superstar. Now, I have no love for Elijah Burke. In fact, I think he's a piece of trash. However, I have no love for Superstars who try to use knives to murder their opponents in the ring either. I hope you already have a penalty in mind."

McMahon let out another sigh. "Yes, yes, I do. An immediate firing, I think. Jericho will be stripped of the title as well. He's in custody right now, and we have no intention of bailing him out."

Cena looked satisfied. He rose to leave. "Have a good evening."

McMahon gave him a nod as an acknowledgement. "You too."

_**29rd August 2010 - Sunday - 3:00pm. **_

"Dad, you need to take a look at this," Shane McMahon, Vince McMahon's son, said as he walked into his father's office. They were both in Stamford, Connecticut, at WWE headquarters. The elder McMahon had been busy going over a few endorsement deals and contracts when his son had walked in hurriedly, waving a sheet of paper.

"What is it, Shane?" Vince asked, looking up from his work.

Shane extended the sheet towards his father. "These are the ratings for this Monday's _Raw. _You know, the one with the 'incident'?"

Vince sighed. "Shane, I don't want to hear anything about it. I'd much rather forget about it and move on. No use dwelling on-"

"Dad," Shane interjected. "You don't understand. Take a look at the ratings."

The elder McMahon gave in, and accepted the sheet of paper from his son. He quickly glanced over it. His eyes quickly fell upon the ratings for the final segment.

_**[9:30pm - 10:00pm] (Chris Jericho (c) vs Elijah Burke) - 4.3**_

Vince shook his head, blinked quickly, and re-read the line. He glanced up at Shane, searching his son's face for an explanation. When Shane gave no response, Vince looked at the number once more. It was right there, in big, bold font: _**4.3**_.

"There has to be a mistake," Vince declared. "This rating can't be right. Look, not one single segment before that match passed the 3.5 mark. Hell, we haven't passed the 4.0 mark for years."

"It's no mistake, Dad. It's been confirmed three times. For that segment, we drew a 4.3. The ratings also show that the majority of the viewers tuned in _after _Jericho stabbed Burke."

Before Vince could say anything, Shane held up a hand to silence him. He motioned for his father to turn the paper over.

"On the back of that sheet, you'll see the sales figures for our merchandise. Take a look at the column under Chris Jericho's name."

Vince dutifully turned the sheet of paper over, and went over the new information. The list detailed which Superstar sold the most merchandise.

Chris Jericho was right at the top.

Vince noted that the sudden spike in sales had taken place the day after the stabbing. The company was making a profit. The extra revenue brought in from the sales of Jericho's merchandise more than covered what Elijah Burke's merchandise brought in.

"Not to mention," Shane added. "We've been getting calls and emails all week long from people asking if we're bringing the Attitude Era back. They seem to take this as a sign that the Attitude Era is returning."

_The fans wanted blood._

Vince's brow furrowed, deep in thought. After a while, he glanced up at Shane, who was looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" Shane asked.

"Well, what?" Vince shot back. "What are you driving at, Shane?"

"If we reinstate Jericho now, he can still make it to the show tomorrow night. We can put him up against someone who hasn't been selling that much merchandise. Maybe...Chavo Guerrero?"

_It would guarantee more money for him and the company._

Vince thought for a moment.

"All right. Do it."

* * *

_**16th January 2012 - Monday - 10:05pm. [Monday Night Raw]**_

Back in the present, as Chris Jericho continued celebrating his latest win with the crowd, a mature-looking man looked on.

Dressed in a heavy overcoat, Vincent Kennedy McMahon stood in one corner of the bingo hall. He had purchased a ticket, and had watched the whole show.

He had never felt so disgusted in his life.

His company had been reduced to _this?_

McMahon turned to leave, narrowly dodging a couple of beer cans that had been thrown around.

He had sat by for too long. He regretted letting his company degenerate into this farce.

"My company," he muttered. "My company, god damn it!"

He shot one last look at Chris Jericho.

_Saviour, indeed._

"I'm taking it back, Jericho. I'm taking back what's mine."

With that, McMahon left the bingo hall, leaving the rowdy cheers of the crowd behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 2**

_**30th August 2010 - Monday - 10:30pm. [Monday Night Raw]**_

"Vince," Cena raged. "What the hell was that? Jericho nearly _murdered _Chavo Guerrero out there with that damn knife of his! You said you were going to fire him. Give me an explanation."

John Cena had both of his hands tightened on Vince McMahon's collar, with his fury-filled eyes boring into McMahon's. The two men were in McMahon's private office.

"Let me go, damn it! Cena, I'm warning you, if you don't let me g-"

Cena responded as McMahon had requested, although probably not in the manner that he had wanted. The Chairman was roughly shoved backwards into his chair. The force of the shove nearly sent the chair toppling over.

"Talk."

McMahon brushed himself off. "All right, I'll get straight to the point. Jericho's been bringing in a lot more money from his merchandise lately. Our ratings have been given a gigantic boost from his actions. He's going to make this company thousands. More importantly, he's going to make _me _thousands of dollars. Hell, as of right now, he's even pulling in more money than you."

"You're willing to put lives on the line just to make money? You forced Chavo out there, and he nearly got murdered. He's in the hospital right now, bleeding from twelve cuts. He's lost his _goddamn eye_, for God's sake! The doctors say that he may not pull through. Explain that to me. Money is more important to you than the lives of your employees? Is that it?" Cena raged.

McMahon moved to stand in front of Cena. The Chairman picked up a stack of papers from his desk and waved them in front of the Superstar's face.

"Do you know what these are, John?" McMahon asked, a bit of condescension creeping into his voice. "These are just _a few_ of the _thousands _of emails that we've received from fans since the incident. You know what they all have in common? They all want more blood. You heard me. These fans want to see more bloodshed, and they're willing to pay good money to see it. I'm going to give it to them, John. Jericho stays."

Cena's eyes narrowed. "That's your final decision?"

McMahon nodded. "Damn right, it is."

"Then consider this my resignation."

McMahon started. Had he just heard correctly? John Cena had just announced his intention to quit. Cena moved to exit the office, but McMahon quickly blocked his way.

"You can't leave! Damn it, you're one of our biggest draws! We'll lose tons of money!" McMahon frantically yelled.

"Ask me if I care," Cena replied, sounding nonchalant.

"If it's Jericho you're worried about, you have my word that you'll never be booked to face him." McMahon was searching for a reason to keep Cena in the WWE.

Cena did not respond. He tried to leave. McMahon had to forcibly hold him back.

"Talk to me, damn it!"

Cena turned to face his employer. "I couldn't live with myself if I kept working for a company that blatantly sponsored and harboured someone like Chris Jericho. That maniac should be behind bars, not wrestling in the WWE. The sports entertainment industry is getting run into the ground, Vince. Mark my words. Keep this up, and your company is going down."

With that, Cena left the office, and the WWE, leaving Vince McMahon fuming in his office.

* * *

_**1st September 2010 - Wednesday - 3:30pm.**_

It had not been a good week.

Superstar after Superstar had been quitting left and right. Cena had called his closest friends in the company, and had told them the news. Dave Batista, one of Cena's closest friends, had been one of the first to resign. A couple of minutes later, CM Punk, another of Cena's friends, had called McMahon to submit his resignation.

A lot more Superstars soon followed, ranging from people like Rey Mysterio and Shawn Michaels, who were disgusted at both McMahon's and Jericho's behaviours, to people like John 'Bradshaw' Layfield, who just wanted to quit to avoid being pencilled in as Chris Jericho's next victim.

McMahon was in trouble. His greed had cost him. With a huge exodus of talent from his company, his ratings were going to suffer. Not to mention, he had to explain to the fans why so many of their favourites were no longer with the company.

Not to mention, he had a feeling that Bonnie Hammer was going to call him very soon, screaming bloody murder about what had happened. McMahon sniffed. He did not think that he had anything to worry about. All he had to do was promise to put up another apology on the website. After all, the USA Network could not drop _Raw_, or they would lose their spot as the top network in America.

McMahon groaned as he massaged his temples.

This was not good.

Still, _Raw _had pulled a **4.5**, a **0.2** increase from last week. That was the only piece of good news that McMahon had had so far. However, the ratings were not likely to remain at those levels after fans found out that so many fan-favourites had left the company. McMahon shook his head. It had to be done. He had to fire Chris Jericho in order to bring the rest of the Superstars back.

He quickly fished his cellphone out of his pocket, and dialed Jericho's number, intending to tell the Superstar to come to Stamford, Connecticut as soon as possible. Fortunately, Jericho was already on his way, having received a request from the marketing department for a photoshoot. McMahon scheduled a face-to-face meeting. He wanted to break the news to Jericho personally.

Jericho's voice was surprisingly laced with eagerness, McMahon thought. He seemed very eager to attend the meeting. McMahon shrugged it off, said a curt goodbye, and put the phone back in his pocket.

McMahon sighed. At least, after the meeting, everything would go back to normal, both for him, and the company.

_How wrong he was._

_How very wrong._

_

* * *

_

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Chris," McMahon said, as he extended his hand.

Chris Jericho took the hand and pumped it twice. McMahon noticed that Jericho had a black duffel bag with him. _Probably his ring gear,_ McMahon thought.

Jericho took a seat opposite McMahon. Seeing no reason to beat around the bush, McMahon decided to come straight out with it.

"Listen, Chris, I called you here today because-"

Jericho cut off his with a raised hand.

"Sorry to interrupt, Vince, but I have something very important to talk to about first. Do you mind?" Jericho rested his elbows on McMahon's desk as he waited for a response.

McMahon decided to allow the Superstar to speak his mind before he got his contract terminated. He made a motion for him to proceed.

Jericho nodded. "Thanks. You know, Vince, ever since that little piece of gutter-trash, Elijah Burke, popped my old man right in the face, I've been doing a little thinking. You know, a little soul-searching."

McMahon stared at him blankly. He motioned for Jericho to continue.

"You know what I've realized over the past few days? I haven't accomplished anything."

Jericho leaned forward, and continued, "I've taken out Burke. On Monday, I took out Chavo Guerrero. Both were scum, no doubt, but I've come to the realization that I've been aiming too low. I've been targetting the vermin, when in hindsight, I should've gone straight to the person who let them into the company in the first place."

McMahon was flabbergasted. What the hell was he getting at?

Jericho jabbed a finger at McMahon. "It's you, Vince. You're the problem here. You were the one who approved all the contracts. You let them all in. Jackasses like Orton, Burke, Chavo, and JBL are all here because _you _let them in."

The Chairman made a move to stand, but Jericho waved him back down, indicating that he had not finished.

"I've made my decision, Vince. I've decided that if the WWE is going to be saved, you need to be out of the picture. This is why I've come to you with an offer to _purchase _the WWE from you. I already have a contract drawn up. All you need to do is sign it." Jericho withdrew a thick bundle of papers from his duffel bag, and lightly tossed them onto the table, in front of McMahon.

McMahon could not take it anymore. "Now listen to me, you son of a bitch, there is no way in hell I'm signing _anything_. In fact, as of this moment, consider your contract terminated! Yeah, you're _fired_, Chris! Now, get out of my office, or I'll call security!"

Jericho chuckled. "I'm not done, Vince. Have you checked your mail, lately?"

McMahon raised an eyebrow, as Jericho pulled a stack of letters from his bag and tossed them onto the table, next to the contract. McMahon's brow furrowed in rage.

"You went through my mail, you little piece of-"

"No, I just went downstairs, and took the liberty of collecting your mail for you. I think you should read them. Could be important." Jericho crossed his legs and waited, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

The Chairman glanced at some of the envelopes, and had to do a double-take. Some of them bore the enblems of various companies that the WWE had advertisement deals with. He quickly tore open the first one, and scanned the page. He nearly flung the letter across the room. One of their sponsors had just pulled out. Why? Two live stabbing incidents on television, that was why. The stabbings were not easy to ignore. The victims were left horribly cut, and bleeding all over the ring. Chavo Guerrero took two massive slashes to his face, and had lost an eye. McMahon tore open the next one. It said the exact same thing. He glanced at Jericho, his wild eyes searching for an answer.

As if he could read his mind, Jericho started speaking, "I started planning this on the day Burke injured my father. I've been working for you for a long time, Vince. I know all about you. I knew that your greed would override your intelligence and business sense. I knew that my actions would raise the ratings, as well as the company's profits. It was only a matter of time before you got what was coming to you."

McMahon began to reply, but at that moment, the phone rang. McMahon looked to Jericho, who simply responded with a smug smile. McMahon cursed and picked up the phone, already dreading the coming conversation.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Vince, it's Bonnie. Bonnie Hammer."

_Damn it._

"I can guess what you're calling about, Bonnie. Listen, it was out of our hands, okay? We'll put another apology up on the website. I'll even go out next Monday and deliver a public apology myself, if you want."

"I'm sorry, Vince, but that's not just going to cut it. That was _not _a situation that was out of your control. Chris Jericho called me earlier and told me everything. He even faxed me the relevant documents. _You _were the one who bailed him out, and instructed him to face Chavo Guerrero. He also sent me recordings of the few phone calls that transpired between the both of you."

_Oh, no._

Bonnie continued, "If you had wanted to avoid all of that, you could have. You shouldn't have bailed Jericho out. I'm sorry, Vince. The board of directors has heard about this too. They've deemed you out of control, and unable to live up to your promises."

_No._

She continued, "We've been receiving a ton of complaints from activist groups, and we've received tons of boycott threats. Not to mention, most of those threats have already come into effect. We're losing a lot of money here, and your company is the cause of it."

_No, no, she can't mean..._

"So, Vince, I regret to inform you, that the board has decided that the USA Network has to _drop Monday Night Raw _from our timetable. I've contacted our sister network, the Sci-Fi Channel. They've agreed to drop _Extreme Championship Wrestling _as well. I've also sent an email to the CW Network regarding _Smackdown!_. I'm sorry, Vince, but it has to be done."

McMahon dropped his cellphone.

_No._

_How could he have let this happen?_

Jericho grinned at the now-frozen McMahon, picked his cellphone up from the floor, and pressed the button to end the call. He gently placed the sleek, silver device on the table, and lightly drummed his fingers across the mahogany surface.

"Check your mail, Vince. One of those letters is from the CW Network. If I'm not wrong, they want to drop _Friday Night Smackdown! _as well," Jericho said, with a sneer.

McMahon was still frozen.

_How did he screw up so badly?_

_Was it his greed? His lust for money and ratings?_

"I'm not done, Vince."

Jericho took a brown folder out of his duffel bag, and opened it. He pulled out a series of pictures, and waved them in front of McMahon's face.

"What I've got here are pictures of your 'weekend exploits', Vince. You do remember, don't you? That nice redhead that you met last Saturday? She was working for me. I hired her to lead you to a hotel room where I had video cameras set up. Of course, that little 'special something' that she slipped into your drink helped moved the whole thing along very well. I bet the press would have a field day with this. Oh, and you did know that she was still a minor, right?"

Jericho stood up, and paced around the room.

"I can see the headlines now! _Vincent Kennedy McMahon, Chairman of the WWE, caught in sex scandal with underage girl!_"

McMahon looked at Jericho. At that very moment, Jericho knew that he had succeeded. There was no fire in McMahon's eyes, only despair and a faint trace of something..._broken_.

_His Superstars were leaving in droves._

_He had lost all of his sponsors._

_His shows were now off the air._

_Jericho was blackmailing him._

"What do you want?" the Chairman whispered.

Jericho extended a pen towards McMahon. "Me? What I want, Vince, is _justice for all_, which I'll begin to accomplish after you sign that contract."

"You're going to stoop this low, Chris? You're going to lower yourself to this?"

Jericho sneered. "The ends justify the means, Vince. Once I have control of the company, I'm going to remake it in my own image. I'm going to save it, Vince. I will be the saviour that I promised to be, both literally and figuratively."

McMahon looked at the pen, shifted his gaze to Jericho, and finally, to the contract. He let out a weary sigh, a defeated old man, and grasped the pen.

He signed the contract, giving full reign to Chris Jericho.

Jericho smiled.

"You'll thank me once you see what I've done with your company, Vince. I'm going to change the rules a little. For example, all matches will now be decided on the _murder _of one's opponent. It's the way of the future, Vince. Specifically, my future. You saw how well the fans reacted to a bit of stabbing. Think of what a little murder could do. Oh, and the WWE Headquarters have to be torn down. This place is a joke. You've got them making posters of Randy Orton and Edge, two of the biggest pieces of trash in the company. Yes, I've decided. This company has to be torn down, brick by brick."

McMahon now saw that Chris Jericho had truly gone insane.

_Saviour, indeed._

"Now, Vince," Jericho spat. "Kindly get the hell out of my office."

* * *

_**16th January 2012 - Monday - 10:52pm. [Monday Night Raw]**_

Back in the present, McMahon slowly made his way to a payphone, his overcoat wrapped tightly around him. He lightly wrinkled his nose at the public phone, before shrugging, and pulling a quarter out of his pocket.

He put the coin into the machine, and dialed a number that he had memorized all too well.

_Please pick up._

"Hello?" came a voice from the other end.

"John," McMahon rasped. "This is Vince McMahon. We need to talk. I need your help."


	3. Chapter 3

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 3**

_**19th January 2012 - Thursday - 4:30pm. **_

Vincent Kennedy McMahon sat in a quiet coffeeshop, nursing a warm cup of black coffee. He took a light sip, his eyes constantly flickering to the door. He felt anxious.

He took another sip to calm himself. It had been almost two years, and the two men had not parted on the best of terms. In fact, McMahon had to wonder if the other man was even going to show up.

_I'll see if I can be there, but don't get your hopes up, _the man had told him.

_He'll come_, McMahon told himself. _He'll come. He has to._

The door opened.

The former Chairman of the WWE immediately rose from his seat, eyes fixed on the figure standing in the doorway. It took McMahon a while to recognize the stranger. As he matched the man's face to a name, McMahon's anxiety subsided.

John Cena, now thirty-five years old, slowly walked over to his former employer with slight apprehension. McMahon cleared his throat, and extended a hand in greeting. Cena stared at it for a moment, before nodding, and clasping McMahon's hand in his own, with a strong grip.

"Thanks for coming, John. I really needed to see you." McMahon motioned for Cena to have a seat. "Thirsty?"

"Sure. I'll order my own drink. No need to get up." Cena walked over to the counter, and ordered a glass of Coke. He returned to his seat, sipping his drink.

"How's your family, John?" McMahon asked.

Cena blinked. "Fine. How's yours?"

McMahon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "To be frank, I have no idea. The McMahon family drifted apart after that incident. Linda filed for divorce a few months after that, and I haven't spoken to either Shane or Stephanie in over a year."

Cena shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"Look, Vince, I appreciate you asking about my family, but I know that you didn't just invite me out here so that we could make idle chatter. What do you want?" Cena asked.

"Well, John," McMahon said. "I need to talk to you about the WWE."

"I'm past that, Vince. I don't care. I want nothing to do with professional wrestling anymore."

Nonetheless, McMahon leaned forward slightly. "I've been to one of their shows."

Cena scoffed. "And?"

"Do you have any idea what it's degenerated into? Those idiots are murdering each other inside the ring, literally!"

"I fail to see how this is any of my business, Vince."

McMahon could sense that there was still some semblance of animosity between them. Nonetheless, he continued, "I need your help, John. I want you to help me reclaim the WWE."

"Why me, Vince? Why not Shawn Michaels, or Rey Mysterio?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's because I thought that you'd be the only person who would actually have a civilized conversation with me after what I did. I assumed that anyone else would've just spat in my face."

"Well, why now, Vince? Why not two months ago? Or a year ago? Why now?" Cena asked, after taking a long sip from his cup.

"Some things just take a long time to do, John," McMahon said, softly. "Some things take a long time to recover from. The shock of losing everything, especially. I've been doing a bit of soul-searching. I've been thinking long and hard."

"I was greedy, damn it. If I'd just left Chris Jericho in custody after his match with Elijah Burke, this whole thing could have been avoided," Vince explained. "I'd still have my company, I'd still be rich, my shows would still be on television, my family would still be around, and I wouldn't be this self-loathing old fool that I am today."

_Wow._

Cena had to shake his head in disbelief. In front of him was a man whose arrogance and ego had routinely gotten him many scowls from his employees in the past. In his heyday, if McMahon even said anything resembling the sentences that had just come out of his mouth, it either meant that he had gone insane, or that someone was holding a gun to his head, forcing him to talk. To hear Vince McMahon call himself a 'self-loathing old fool' was...refreshing, in a way.

_Maybe he did deserve help. _

_Maybe a show had to be attended, just to see if it was as bad as the old man said it was._

Cena cleared his throat. "You mentioned going to one of their shows. Where was it held?"

McMahon sniffed. "Some old bingo hall. I can give you the address if you want to see a show for yourself next Monday night."

Cena thought for a moment, and nodded. "Sure. Write it down for me. I'll bring a couple of friends along, too. If it's as bad as you say it is, I have a feeling that they'll want to see it too."

Cena could not help but notice the faint glimmer of hope in McMahon's eyes as he wrote down the address for him.

* * *

_**23rd January 2012 - Monday - 8:15pm. [Monday Night Raw]**_

Cena had never felt so disgusted in his entire life.

It was only fifteen minutes into the show, and already, Cena wanted to leave. Hooligans were all over the place, fighting, drinking, having sex, and whatnot. There was no restriction on age. Teenagers had the right to enter, as long as they paid the admission fee.

In the ring, a public sex contest was taking place. The 'divas' were already stripping off their clothes.

Cena turned to the man on his right. "Can you believe this?"

The man grunted. "Seems like McMahon was telling the truth. The company's gone to hell. With talent like that, and fans like these, it can only go downhill, if nobody does anything."

Cena spoke to the man on his left, "What do you think?"

The man he was talking to scoffed. "It's just like Dave said. If no one does anything, this company is going to go straight to hell. Heh, maybe it's already there, and it just doesn't know it."

Dave Batista, a former World Heavyweight Champion, sat to Cena's right. CM Punk, another former Champion, sat to Cena's left. Both wore looks of absolute disgust on their faces at the events unfolding around them.

Punk wrinkled his nose. "Alcohol, drugs, and casual sex. It's happening all over the place, and we haven't even gotten fifteen minutes into the show. Look at what's happening in the ring. I'm willing to bet that the 'diva' on the extreme left isn't even legal yet. What the hell's going on?"

Batista grunted. "Moral compass."

"What?" both Cena and Punk asked in unison.

"Without anyone to show them the way, they've gone off course. With only someone like Jericho to emulate, well, I think you can guess how the next generation of wrestlers is going to turn out."

The group of former-wrestlers sat through the first segment of the show, barely managing to hold in their disgust. The second segment soon started, featuring an all-out brawl between a young, male Caucasian that the announcer dubbed 'Cypress', and a giant, black behemoth called 'Obsidian'. The two combatants were presented with knives as soon as they entered the ring. The bell rang, signaling the start of the match. The fighters immediately began slashing away at one another with wild abandon, to the delight of the crowd. As the segment entered its second minute, Obsidian managed to knock Cypress flat on his back, and quickly straddled his torso. The giant began to raise his knife, aiming for his opponent's throat.

The crowd erupted. Chants of 'Kill! Kill!' began to echo throughout the arena.

Cena tossed a look at Batista. The gleam in Batista's eyes told him all he needed to know.

_This has to be stopped._

Cena turned to Punk, who had already risen from his seat. Punk turned to his friends, and spoke.

"Let's go."

With that, the three men sprinted down to the ring, pushing people out of their way.

* * *

Cypress, bloodied and weak, desperately clawed at the giant's torso. Obsidian sneered, and brought the knife down. His eyes, gleaming with malice, locked with Cypress's fear-filled orbs. Obsidian had to suppress a throaty chuckle as his hand came down.

_He had it won._

He suddenly felt his hand stop in mid-air.

The crowd went silent.

Obsidian suddenly realized that someone's _hand _was restraining his own. He turned to face the hand's owner with a loud growl, and stopped short as he recognized the man standing before him.

"Y-You," he managed to stammer. "You're...John Cena..."

Cena nodded, before delivering a vicious punch to Obsidian's face, knocking the giant off his would-be victim and to the mat. While Batista threw the referee out of the ring, Punk gathered the weapons and deposited them outside the ring. Cena bent down to check on Cypress. He was all right, apart from a few superficial wounds. Cena turned to face the audience. Several whispers could be heard among the crowd members.

"...that him? John Cena..."

"...thought he was gone..."

"...that one? I think his name is Batista..."

"...older brother used to talk a lot about him..."

"...CM Punk, that one..."

"...don't know where they've been..."

"...they're back now..."

Batista nodded at his friends. Punk had his arms folded across his chest, scanning the myriad of stunned faces in the crowd. Cena surveyed the crowd for a moment, before signaling for a microphone. A nearby tech-assistant brought one to him, hands shaking. Cena nodded his thanks, and raised it to his lips.

"Jericho! Get out here! Now!"

* * *

Cena scowled as the familiar countdown sequence started up on the titantron. Batista and Punk both stood silently, eyes fixed on the entranceway. The members of the crowd, however, broke out of their stupor, and cheered madly for their _saviour_.

Chris Jericho burst through the entrance curtain, a microphone in hand. He quickly got into the ring, and stared down the three invaders.

"John Cena, Dave Batista, and CM Punk. It's been a while," Jericho drawled. "May I ask why in the hell you bunch of jackasses have interrupted one of my shows?"

"You need to ask? Look around, you lunatic," Cena raged. "You've got people killing each other left and right. Your 'divas' are having sex in public. This isn't professional wrestling! What the hell have you done to this company?"

"I've saved it, you ass-clown. Look at it! People like Randy Orton, JBL, Elijah Burke, and Vince McMahon no longer exist in this company! I've cleansed this company! I've _saved _the WWE!"

Cena looked down for a moment.

"You're right."

Batista and Punk stared at their friend in surprise. Jericho did the same, before catching himself.

"You know, Cena, I always thought that you were more muscle than brain, but now, I see that you-"

Cena raised a hand to cut him off. "You're right, Jericho. People like Orton and Edge no longer exist in this company. Yeah, vermin like them no longer exist here. You know why? It's because you and your 'wrestlers' have evolved into something far _lower _than vermin."

Jericho's eyed narrowed. "What?"

Cena continued, "Orton was a traitorous snake. Edge was a lying, sexist, backstabber. McMahon was a megalomaniacal bastard. You were right. They were scum, but at the very least, they weren't murderers."

Jericho moved forward. "How dare y-"

Cena cut him off again. "Ten years ago, one of my friends was murdered by a mugger, who wanted his money. In my naivety, I used to think that people like him were the lowest form of scum on the planet. But now, I see that I'm wrong. No. It's people like you, Jericho, who are the real vermin. People like you, who _murder for fun_. Not in self-defence, not for money, not for a cause, and not for a belief. You murder for _fun_."

"We murder for a purpose, John," Jericho said. "Look at the fans, for example. These are the purest of the lot, who will support this company to their dying breaths. With murder, we've weeded out the unloyal, and-"

"Right. 'Purest of the lot'? Is that what you call people who come here specifically to watch other people get murdered? Is that what you call people who come here to try to get girls drunk enough to rape them? These people, Jericho, are all bottom-rung pieces of trash, as are you, and the rest of your little crew backstage." Cena gestured to the crowd. He stepped towards Jericho. "Face it, Chris, you've gone insane. Stop this debacle. Close down this operation. It's not too late to turn back. I can help you."

"You think I need help?" Jericho shouted. "Fine, I see it now. Oh, yes, I see what you want to do. I've saved this company, and now, you three are trying to tear down my work. I'm not going to allow you to ruin perfection. I'm only going to tell you bunch of traitors once: leave, and never come back. If you had any love for this industry, you'd appreciate what I've done!"

Punk grabbed the microphone from Cena, and said, "Traitors, huh? Let's see here, Chris. You've driven the WWE into the ground, you've turned professional wrestling into a bloodsport, and all of your wrestlers are a bunch of people who should be serving time behind bars."

Punk leaned in towards Jericho, whispering, "Who's the real traitor here, Chris?"

Cena took back the microphone. "We're going to bring the r_eal_ WWE back, Chris, with or without your approval."

Jericho shook his head. "You're not raising that diseased, corrupted portion of the company back from the dead. I'm not going to allow you to do that."

With that, Jericho motioned to the back, and a wave of men poured through the entrance curtain, all bearing knives, saws, and other bladed weapons. Cena, Batista, and Punk, smartly seeing that they were outnumbered, quickly slid out of the ring and retreated through the crowd to one of the exits, just as Jericho's wrestlers stormed the ring. Jericho tried to grab Cena as he escaped the ring, but the former wrestler managed to slip away from him at the last second.

The crowd was incredibly silent.

"Go home, all of you!" Jericho yelled at the audience. "The show's been cancelled! Leave, now!"

As the members of the crowd began filing out, one of Jericho's wrestlers approached him.

"What do we do, boss?" he asked.

Jericho looked at him, murderous intent apparent in his eyes.

"_Prepare for war_."


	4. Chapter 4

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 4**

_**25th January 2012 - Wednesday - 1:45pm. **_

"It's been decided. We're going to help you get it back, Vince."

Vincent Kennedy McMahon looked at the man who was talking to him. He took a sip from his cup of coffee, before resting his chin on his hands. The two men were in the same coffeeshop where they had met the week before.

"Thank you. I know I don't deserve your help, but-"

John Cena, that man who sat opposite McMahon, shook his head. "Hold it right there, Vince. What do you mean?"

McMahon took another sip from his cup. "I've been a complete bastard to all three of you in the past. I've made your lives difficult. Yet, you're all willing to help me. Why? I need to know, John."

Cena remained silent for a moment, before saying, "Look, Vince, I'll admit that I've never liked you. There were times when I thought about beating the living daylights out of you. However, what Jericho did to you was wrong. What Jericho's doing to the professional wrestling industry is wrong. I'm going to right those wrongs, and one way to do that is to return your company back to you. I'll admit, Vince, you were a bastard, but you knew how to run a company."

McMahon nodded. "Thank you."

Cena cocked his head to the side. "You've changed, Vince."

"Hmm?"

"I've never seen you so humble."

"Losing everything does wonders to your ego, John."

Cena cleared his throat. "How did Jericho make you sign that contract, anyway?"

McMahon shifted nervously. "I, uh, suddenly received a lot of bad news, and had a huge shock. That helped him. Also, he...blackmailed me. He had some pictures of one of my 'sessions' with a girl that I had met in a hotel lounge. That girl was working for him, and she was underage. She drugged me, and took me up to a room. I assume that Jericho had cameras installed inside beforehand."

Cena frowned.

_Saviour, indeed._

"Does he still have the pictures?" Cena asked.

McMahon shrugged. "I don't know. Probably."

"We'll get them, somehow. Don't worry."

McMahon downed the last of his coffee. He called the waitress over, and asked for a refill.

"What are you planning, John?"

Cena furrowed his brow in thought. "Batista suggested that we start up an independent professional wrestling promotion. The only company left in the industry is Jericho's WWE, anyway. All the others closed down a couple of years ago. We need to show people that wrestling isn't just a bloodsport. We'll run a few shows, here and there. I think it's a pretty good idea."

McMahon nodded. "You'll need wrestlers, though."

"Punk and Batista are already making some calls. We're going to do a little recruiting, as well. We'll see how it goes. I have your number. I'll call you if anything interesting happens."

"All right," McMahon said, as he tapped his chin. He finished off his second cup of coffee, and rose to leave. Cena gulped down the rest of his Coke, and stood up, as well. The two men shook hands as they walked to the door together.

"How about a slogan? You know, just a small something to put underneath a few of your advertisement banners?" McMahon asked, just as they reached the door.

"Already have one in mind. I think it fits, considering the situation that we're in."

"Which is?"

"_The power is back._"

* * *

_**26th January 2012 - Thursday - 9:10pm. **_

"How many do we have?" Cena asked, his eyes fixed on the road, hands on the steering wheel of his car.

"At least five of them have confirmed their attendance. People like Rey Mysterio, Lance Storm, and Tommy Dreamer are going to be among the wrestlers attending the event."

"Good."

Cena turned to face Batista, who was sitting in the passenger seat, an old map in his hands.

"Where'd you hear about this place, anyway?"

Batista replied with a grin, "Internet."

Cena chuckled. "This place is supposed to be full of Jericho's wanna-be wrestlers, right? His potential recruits, so to speak?"

"That's right. He's supposed to own that bar, anyway. He only comes in to search for new recruits every Sunday night, which is why I doubt he'll be there tonight."

"Great. We'll have a chance to talk to them, then."

Batista pointed to a glowing, blue neon sign in the distance. "There. That should be it."

Cena slowed his car to a halt, right in front of a nightclub. The sign identified the club as 'Salvation'. People, mostly teenaged males, poured into the club. The bouncer, a heavily-tattooed giant, eyed the entrants with the utmost attention, particularly the girls.

Cena tapped his chin with his fingers. "We need to take care of the bouncer before we'll be able to get inside. Jericho's probably told him about us, just in case."

"Leave that to me." Batista alighted from the vehicle, and swiftly walked over to the bouncer.

"Help you?" the giant asked, his eyes fixed on the new arrival before him. The bouncer towered over Batista by a full foot. Recognition suddenly dawned on the bouncer's face. "Hey, wait a minute! Batista! Get out of here, asshole, before I kick your-"

He never got to finish his sentence. Batista delivered a few fast punches to the bouncer's face. The giant staggered backwards, stunned. Batista quickly grabbed a fistful of the bouncer's auburn hair, and introduced the bouncer's face to the concrete wall several times over. The bouncer eventually slumped to the ground, unconscious, his face bloodied. Batista motioned to Cena. Cena nodded, turned the engine off, and ran up to his friend. The two men entered the nightclub together.

Music assaulted their ears. Lights of various colours flashed all over the place. People were everywhere, dancing, talking, and drinking. Cena scanned the large room, attempting to identify the best way to get everyone's attention.

Batista gently elbowed his friend in the ribs. When he had Cena's attention, he jutted his chin towards a couple of men who were quickly advancing upon the two former wrestlers.

"I recognize the one on the left," Cena whispered in Batista's ear. "I saw him among Jericho's thugs when the whole flood of them chased us out on Monday."

The two thugs stopped a short distance away, switchblades drawn.

"You two, get the hell out of our bar!" the one on the left shouted.

"No."

With that, both Cena and Batista attacked, forcing the knives from their opponents' grips, and tossing them to the floor. Batista sent his opponent crashing into a table, knocking over several glasses. The crashes made the DJ stop the music. Soon, all attention was on the two fights that were going on simultaneously.

Cena dispatched his opponent without that much trouble. He looked over at Batista. His friend's shirt was ripped in a few places, and he sported a nasty bruise above his right eye, but other than that, he was fine. Cena was disappointed to find that he was already out of breath. He was more rusty than he had thought.

As Cena moved towards the bar, most of the patrons whispered amongst themselves. Batista followed shortly behind him. Cena got on the bar counter, scanning the crowd to make sure that he had everyone's attention.

"You all know who I am."

Several mutters of confirmation came from the crowd.

"I'm here because I want to-"

"Ah, shut it, you moron."

All eyes turned to a young man, obviously drunk, sitting near the bar. He took a long swig from his half-empty bottle of beer, and swaggered towards Cena.

"We don't want your self-righteous ass here. This is our bar," he mumbled. "Jericho's going to kick your ass."

A punch to the face from Batista knocked the loud-mouthed drunkard out cold.

"Thanks, Dave."

Batista chuckled, and gave his friend a thumbs-up.

Cena wrinkled his nose at the bottles of alcohol that lined the racks behind the bar. He picked up an empty bottle that was lying on the counter, and flung it against the row of bottles. A good number of them shattered on impact, sending stray bits of glass and alcohol flying.

"Those were not helping."

Cena turned to face the crowd.

"I'll cut to the chase," he said. "I'm here because I want to inform all of you that the old WWE, no, the _real _WWE, is coming back. I'm here because, eventually, you all are going to have to pick a side to stand with."

He continued, "You all want to be wrestlers, right? That's why you're all here, waiting for Chris Jericho to come in every Sunday night, hoping that he'll pick you to be among his roster of thugs."

A few members of the crowd murmured something to one another.

Cena sighed. "Do any of you even know what a German Suplex is?"

A sea of blank faces stared back at him.

"I've come with a proposition: I want you all to join us, _willingly_. You want to be wrestlers? Here's your chance. We have teachers that can teach you. Soon, a few of them will open up wrestling academies, to teach you how to be proper wrestlers. What you all are right now is a bunch of thugs who know how to swing knives around. That's not being a wrestler. That makes you a punk that belongs on the streets or behind bars."

Cena went on, "Now, this is for all the girls in attendance. Female wrestling can be brought back. Forget what Jericho's told you. You don't have to sell your bodies to be successful. We'll have a Women's division, with a championship belt to fight for."

Excited murmurs passed through the crowd.

Cena held his hands up for silence. "I'm inviting all of you to attend our show on the 13th of February. It'll be held in the Hammerstein Ballroom. There's a five-dollar admission fee. Take note, there'll be no drinking, no violence, and most of all, no sex. Security guards will be around. If they see you having any form of alcohol, they'll confiscate it from you. If they see you engaging in unacceptable behaviour, you'll be tossed out."

Disappointed grunts and groans came from several parts of the crowd.

"If any of you are interested in what real professional wrestling should be, please come by on the 13th. That'll be all. Have a good night, all of you."

Cena hopped off the counter, and headed for the door, with Batista in tow. The sea of people parted for him, clearing a path to the door. The two men walked out, leaving a cacophony of excited voices behind.

* * *

_**27th January 2012 - Friday - 8:00am. **_

Chris Jericho sat at his desk, his attention fixed on the telephone in front of him.

"You're sure it was them?" he asked.

A voice came from the loudspeaker, "Yes, boss, we're sure. Cena and Batista came in, wrecked the place, and gave some funny speech. What do you want us to do?"

"Double the guard. I'm going to send a couple of my lieutenants down there to do some early recruiting tomorrow night. We'll need them for the war."

Jericho ended the call. He looked up at the men standing in front of his desk, staring at him intently. Jericho leaned back in his chair, grinning.

"Has anyone here not received their instructions?"

Silence.

"Good. Give me results."

The men left the office.


	5. Chapter 5

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 5**

_**29th January 2012 - Sunday - 7:55pm. **_

CM Punk downed the remainder of his Pepsi. He waved a waitress over and politely requested a refill. The waitress picked up his empty glass, cocked her head sideways, and looked at him.

"What is it?" Punk asked, looking up at the waitress.

"You sure you don't want anything else?" she asked, shifting her feet slightly. "I mean, this is a bar, after all."

"I'm well aware. I come here every week, and thanks, but I don't need anything else." Punk chuckled. "You're new here, aren't you?"

The waitress nodded shyly. "I just wanted to know if you wanted a beer or anything. I mean, you've been here for, like, an hour, and all you've had to drink is Pepsi. Most people don't usually come to bars just to drink Pepsi, that's all."

"I'm not like most people." Punk raised his hands, with his palms facing his face, showing the two black crosses on the backs of his hands to the waitress. "I don't suppose many straight-edgers come to bars. I'm just here because I like the ambience."

"Oh, I see. Well, sorry for bothering you. One Pepsi, coming up." The waitress headed to the kitchen to get the drink.

Punk shoved a bunch of potato chips into his mouth, before reclining in his seat. He lazily scanned the bar. A couple sat in a corner booth, sipping some beer, and watching a soccer match on one of the televisions. A few patrons sat at the bar counter, nursing glasses containing drinks of their choice. Everyone knew each other there. That was why Punk liked it. It was a nice, casual place, with good ambience.

Another waitress soon reappeared with Punk's drink. Punk thanked her, and took a large sip. The waitress quickly disappeared into the kitchen. Punk shrugged, and continued drinking and shoving chips into his mouth.

His glass was soon empty. He stood up, and headed for the bar counter, with the intention of ordering another Pepsi for himself. He was halfway there when his head swam.

_What the hell?_

Punk pressed his hand against a table for support. He felt nauseous. His breathing grew heavier, and more laboured.

"Hey, Punk, you all right?" one of the patrons asked.

The empty glass of Pepsi fell from Punk's hand, shattering into several tiny pieces on the floor. Punk fell to his knees, and opened his mouth, as a torrent of vomit poured out. Punk threw up some more, before he collapsed, unconscious. Before darkness overtook his vision, he vaguely heard someone shouting for an ambulance to be called.

In the kitchen, a young man quickly left through the back door, smirking all the while. He glanced at the small, transparent bottle in his right hand. The bottle held several capsules, coloured black and white, one of which he had slipped into Punk's last drink. It had been a simple matter to sneak into the kitchen, and to distract the waitress while he quickly dropped one of the capsules into Punk's latest refill.

He pulled a cellphone out of his pocket and punched in a few numbers. He held the phone up to his ear.

"Yeah, it's me. CM Punk has been taken care of."

* * *

_**29th January 2012 - Sunday - 8:30pm. **_

Dave Batista walked out of the diner, wiping his mouth on a napkin. He tossed the stained piece of paper into a nearby trash can, before walking down the street, looking for his car.

His cellphone rang.

Batista pulled his phone out of his pocket and examined the tiny screen. He raised his eyebrow at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He shrugged, and accepted the call.

"Hello?"

"Dave Batista?"

"Yeah. Who's this? How did you get my number?"

"All you need to know," the stranger said. "Is that I work for Chris Jericho."

Batista's eyes narrowed.

"Why the hell are you calling me?" Batista asked.

"I have something you need to hear."

A faint, muffled grunt could be heard in the background.

"Dave!" another voice yelled. This voice was extremely familiar.

"Dad?" Batista managed to match a name to the voice. "Dad? Is that you?"

Batista heard his father try to say something, before a loud thud silenced him.

"Hear that, Batista?" the stranger asked, a slight hint of malice in his voice.

"I'm going to rip you apart if you hurt him, you son of a bitch."

"Too late."

An animalistic shriek of agony came from the other end of the phone, accompanied by the unpleasant, sickening sound of _bones breaking_.

Batista ran to his car.

* * *

_**29th January 2012 - Sunday - 10:30pm. **_

"How is he, doctor?" Batista asked, worriedly running a hand over his bald head.

The medical practitioner in front of him cleared his throat, and said, "He's not doing well. Both of his legs have been broken."

The two men were in a hospital. Batista had rushed home, only to find his father on the ground in front of his house, babbling incoherently, and bleeding from a broken nose and a cut lip. He immediately called for an ambulance, and tried to calm his father down before the paramedics arrived. It was then that he had noticed that both of his father's legs were bent in an unusual angle. Thankfully, the paramedics arrived within a short time, and his father was taken to the nearest hospital. Batista followed the ambulance in his car. On the way, he contacted Cena, and told him about the situation. Cena agreed to meet him at the hospital, saying that he had some news of his own to tell him.

Batista yelled in frustration, and had to stop himself from driving his fist into the wall. The doctor stood silently, waiting for Batista to calm down.

"May I see him?" Batista asked, his voice hoarse.

"Not right now, I'm afraid." The doctor shook his head, drawing a dark frown from the man in front of him. "You can leave me your phone number, and I'll notify you of when you may visit him."

Batista nodded, shakily accepted the pen that the doctor offered, and hastily scribbled his number down on the doctor's clipboard. The doctor turned to leave.

"I'll give you a call when your father is able to receive visitors."

"Thank you."

The doctor went back into the room to check on Batista's father.

"Dave!"

Batista turned, and felt a small pang of relief hit him as he saw John Cena racing down the hallway towards him.

"I came as soon as I could," Cena told him. "How is he?"

"Not good," Batista said. "Both of his legs have been broken."

Cena shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Both men stood silently, staring at each other awkwardly. Batista cleared his throat, and directed his gaze to the floor.

"On the phone, you said you had some news for me. What is it?" Batista tried to change the subject.

Cena sighed. "Well, I tried calling Punk on his cell just now. A friend of his picked up, and told me that Punk had been poisoned, or something, and had been taken some hospital near where he was."

Batista's eyes widened. "What?"

Cena nodded. "I couldn't contact him again after that. His cellphone got turned off. I think his battery went flat, or something."

"Jericho," Batista hissed.

"You think he's behind this?"

"I _know _he's behind this. Who else could it be? One of his cronies had the balls to call me, and made me listen to him breaking my father's legs."

Batista motioned for Cena to follow him, leading him out of the hospital.

"Meet me back at my place. We'll talk there."

* * *

Cena wrinkled his nose. Batista did the same. A slight hint of anger crept into Batista's eyes.

Whoever it was that had injured Batista's father had also spray-painted a message on the wall of Batista's living room.

_Justice for all_, the message read.

"Now I'm convinced that Jericho's gone insane," Cena said. "He thinks that he's the _good guy _in this."

"I knew that he wouldn't go down without a fight, but this is different," Batista said, as he inspected the message. "He's crossed the line. I want that asshole _dead_."

"Look, Dave," Cena said. "I think you should consider making a police report. Let the law handle this one. We know where Jericho's based. They'll be able to trace the guy who did it, and with luck, he'll rat on Jericho."

"No."

"No?" Cena looked at his friend. "What do you mean? It's the right thing to do."

Batista turned to face Cena. "I'm going to handle this on my own."

Cena frowned. He did not like where the conversation was going.

"Dave," Cena's voice was slow, and deliberate. "You cannot take matters into your own hands. It's not right. Make the police report, please."

"No. I'm going after that bastard, and I'm going after him _now_." Batista armed himself with a baseball bat, and made for the doorway. Cena intercepted him and placed a strong hand on the bat.

"Give me the bat. You don't want to do this. You're angry right now. It's clouding your judgement. You're not thinking straight." Cena attempted to wrench the makeshift weapon from his friend's hands.

"John," Batista's voice was low, dangerous. "Let go."

"No. I'm not going to let you do this. You go after Jericho now, and you'll get taken down."

With a guttural roar, Batista yanked the bat out of Cena's grip, and swung the weapon against his friend's face. The bat hit Cena with a loud thud, sending the former wrestler crashing to the floor, unconscious.

"I'm sorry, John. You can't stop me on this."

Batista ran out of the house, and to his car.

* * *

A beaten and bloodied Batista collapsed onto the concrete floor. He felt pairs of strong hands holding him down. Batista's body bore several fresh slashes, and his left eye was swollen shut. There was a sharp pain coming from his right knee, but he hadn't had the chance to identify the problem.

"I instructed my lieutenant to attack your father to draw you here, Dave."

Batista weakly raised his head, and stared into the sneering visage of Chris Jericho.

"First things first," Jericho said, as Batista was forced to a sitting position. Jericho grasped Batista's head in both hands. "Where are they?"

"W-What?" Batista managed. He found it somewhat hard to speak. The familiar coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

"The pictures that I had of Vince McMahon! You know, the ones you and your friends stole? Where are they? Where did you and your friends stash them?" Jericho slapped Batista. Jericho received a blank look in return.

"What pictures?"

"Don't play dumb, Dave." Jericho slapped Batista twice. "Where are they?"

Batista simply stared back at him. Jericho gave Batista two slaps across the face before pacing around the office, fuming.

"Umm, boss?"

Jericho turned around to face the man who had just spoken.

"What?"

"What should we do with him?" The man motioned to Batista. "You want us to break one of his limbs? Maybe he'll talk then."

Jericho shook his head. "No. Keep him somewhere. We'll need him for bait. I want those pictures back, and Cena probably has them."

"Umm, boss? Wouldn't they have, you know, destroyed the pictures by now? I mean, that was their intention, right? To get rid of the pictures? How do you know John Cena still has them?" the man asked.

Jericho chuckled. "If I know Vince McMahon as well as I think I do, he probably told Cena not to destroy them yet. He probably wants to use them as a bargaining chip, if possible. There's no way McMahon's guarding them, so I'm assuming Cena has them."

Jericho watched as Batista got dragged away. He returned to his seat, and reclined backwards, thinking. Something was bothering him. Batista was not that good of a liar. The look in his eyes had told Jericho that he knew nothing about the stolen photographs. That was strange. If Cena or Punk had stolen the pictures, they would most certainly have told Batista.

He had already sent men to search Punk's home. They turned his whole apartment upside-down, but came back empty handed.

It was ridiculous. Cena most likely had the pictures.

_Yes, that was it. Cena had them. He had to have them._

_Who else would have wanted them?_


	6. Chapter 6

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 6**

_**30th January 2012 - Monday - 7:55am. **_

John Cena slowly opened his eyes. He felt an uncomfortable sensation emanating from his left temple. He slowly reached a hand up to examine the area. A light press against his temple caused him to wince in pain.

_Damn it._

He slowly got to his feet, using the sofa for support. He looked around, staring at unfamiliar furniture.

Memories came flooding back to him.

_Dave._

Cena tried to run to the door, but was forced to lie down on the sofa when a wave of nausea hit him. He took several deep breaths, trying his best not to throw up.

He had been too weak. He had failed to stop his friend. Now, he had no idea if Batista was even all right. Cena groaned and covered his face with his hands.

The telephone near the sofa started ringing.

After Cena was absolutely certain that he could sit up without throwing up, he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, and reached for the receiver.

"Hello?" Cena said. "If you're looking for Dave Batista, I'm afraid he's unavailable right now, but if you want, I could take a message for him."

"Won't be necessary, John. Batista's with us."

Cena had to stop himself from leaping to his feet when he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

_Jericho._

"Jericho, where is he? What have you done with him?" Cena tried to keep his voice calm, but he could detect a hint of anger creeping into his own voice.

"Well, John," Jericho said. "Looks like we're in a position to make a deal. I have something you want, and you have something I want. How about this: I'll give you Batista, if you give me back the pictures."

"What pictures?" Cena was confused.

"Don't play dumb, John. Batista tried that, too. I want those pictures of McMahon that you stole. I know Vince probably told you to keep them around as some sort of bargaining chip. Now, you're going to have a chance to use them. I want them in exchange for Batista."

"I have no idea what you're talking about! I haven't stolen anything!"

A sigh. "John, you're really upsetting me. Remember all that talk about honesty you used to make back in the day? You certainly don't practice what you preach."

"Look, I'm telling you, I don't have them."

"Liar!" Jericho's voice turned dangerous. "Last chance, John. _Are you going to return the pictures?_"

"I don't have them!" Cena yelled. He felt a tiny bit of nausea hit him, but he shrugged it off. "I'm telling you, I have no idea what the hell you're talking about!"

Another sigh. "All right, John. Have it your way. Say a prayer for your friend." Cena heard a gun cocking in the background.

_Damn it, he's crossed the line._

"You're absolutely sure?" Jericho taunted.

_But how could Cena win?_

"All right. If that's your choice..."

_No, he couldn't. Not unless he crossed some kind of line..._

Cena growled, but suddenly had a brainwave.

"Go ahead," Cena said. "Shoot him. I dare you."

"Excuse me?" came Jericho's startled voice over the phone. "Could you repeat yourself for me?"

"I told you to shoot him. Shoot Dave. The moment you do that, I'll hang up, and I'll call 911. I know where you're based, Jericho. When the cops come barging in, and see a bloodied corpse lying there, they'll haul your sick ass straight to jail. Take note: you may be able to bribe the few cops they send your way, but I'm pretty sure you don't have enough money to bribe the whole police force."

Cena felt bile rise up his throat, and had to struggle to keep it down. He was attempting a desperate gamble.

Jericho chuckled. "I'm calling your bluff, John."

"What?" Cena asked.

"I know you," Jericho said. "You're a boy scout, John. There's no way in hell you'd let me kill one of your best friends."

_Damn it. He was caught._

"He doesn't have to die, John. All you have to do is return the pictures you stole."

"For the last time: I don't have them. I haven't stolen anything."

"Then Batista is going to die."

"Then I'll call the police."

A brief moment of silence.

"It seems," Jericho said. "That we are at an impasse."

"So it would seem," Cena said.

"If you call the police, Batista gets shot."

"And if you shoot Batista, I'll call the police."

A pause.

Cena heard chuckling coming from the other end.

"What's so funny, Jericho?"

"I may have a solution, John," he said. "One that, I think, would appeal to you a lot, since you're so lost in the WWE of old."

"Which is?"

"I've made a lot of changes to this company," Jericho continued. "One of the things that I refused to abolish was the Royal Rumble. I'm offering you a challenge, John. Find fourteen other men. Anyone. I don't care who. McMahon himself could take part, for all I care."

Cena's head was throbbing, and he had to try his utmost best to pay attention to the details. "C-Carry on."

"You don't sound well, John," Jericho mocked.

"Just carry on, damn it. What's your plan?"

"Fifteen of yours. Fifteen of mine. Thirty-man Royal Rumble. No weapons. Same old rules apply. Interested?" Cena could almost see Jericho grinning on the other side of the phone.

"And the prize?"

"If one of yours wins, you get the company, you get Batista back, and you can keep the photos. If one of mine wins, I keep the company, I get the photos, and Batista will be saying goodbye to a couple of his limbs."

_The photos again._

Cena head throbbed even more. "I-I told y-you..."

"Five seconds to decide, John," Jericho cut him off. "You sound as though you're going to pass out. Better make it fast."

"D-Don't have pictures..." Breathing was getting a lot harder. "T-Told you..."

"Three seconds."

Cena stammered, "B-But I don't-"

"Two."

"Jerich-"

"One."

"Okay. A-Accept. I accept." Cena's right hand flew up to his forehead.

"Good choice. The event will be at _my _arena, this Friday, at seven in the evening. The numbers will be drawn at random. You'll get them before the event starts. There will no interaction between our teams, so keep your men in their locker rooms, and I'll keep mine away from yours. And you better bring those pictures, John."

Cena resigned. "Okay. I'll b-bring the pictures. J-Just make sure that Dave's there, near ringside."

Jericho chuckled. "There, see? I knew you had those pictures. You're a really horrible liar, John. All it took was some nudging in your favour. I'll see you on Friday. Go in through the back entrance. Some of my men will be there to escort you."

Cena unwillingly groaned. The throbbing was getting harder to ignore. His vision began to swim.

He collapsed onto the couch, eyes shut. The receiver fell to the floor, out of his limp hand.

A chuckle came from the earpiece.

"You've already lost, John."

* * *

It was near evening by the time Cena woke up. He sucked in a breath as he gently rubbed his temple. He slowly replaced the receiver, and reclined on the couch, trying his best to remember the details of the conversation.

_Friday. Seven in the evening. Royal Rumble. Find fourteen others. Need to get help._

Cena tried to rack his brain for phone numbers, but to no avail. He had lost contact with almost all of his old friends ages ago, when he left the business. His cellphone contained no numbers, either.

_Dave must have an address book here somewhere._

Cena slowly got off the couch, and staggered around the living room, keeping his eyes peeled for drawers. He found a whole bunch of them next to the stairs, and pulled them open hurriedly. He breathed a small sigh of relief as his eyes fell upon a small, nearly-unnoticeable black book, with the words 'Names and Addresses' emblazoned on the front in faint gold lettering. He flipped through the book, exhaling slightly as familiar names stared back at him from the yellowing pages.

Dreamer. Van Dam. Mysterio. Christian. Flair. They would have to do. Cena paused as he caught a glimpse of the names 'Helmsley' and 'Michaels'. He thought about calling them, too, but decided against it. _Too volatile, those two, _he thought. _I need people I can trust._

He moved over to the phone, the black book spread open on his lap, and started dialing.

* * *

"I see." The voice was grim. Cena could almost see Tommy Dreamer frowning on the other side. "I'll be there, John. You have my word."

"Thanks, Tommy," Cena said, relieved. _Eight down, six to go. _"I knew I could count on you."

"What about the pictures?" Dreamer sounded puzzled. "You said you didn't have them. Jericho's not going to let us participate without them."

"I'll figure something out. In the meantime, you need to start preparing for that match. Work off some of that ring rust. I'll see you on Friday, all right?"

Dreamer sighed. "All right, John. Good luck. See you on Friday." He hung up.

Cena quickly flipped through the pages, looking for another suitable name.

_Ah. There's one._

He picked up the phone, and dialed.

* * *

"We're ready, Vince. All fifteen of us. We're going to be there."

"Are you sure this is what you want? To walk right into the lion's den?"

"We're sure, Vince. None of us are going to down back. I've talked to the rest. They're going to be with me to the end."

A pause.

"If you all are going, then I'm going to be there too."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm _damn _serious, John."

"You're not a wrestler."

"I won't be wrestling. I will be at ringside. I want to watch my champions tear apart Jericho's forces, and help me reclaim what is rightfully mine."

A brief moment of silence.

"You'll need to be careful, though. Wear something to disguise yourself."

"No. No disguises. No more hiding. I want that bastard to see me at ringside. I want him to know that Vincent Kennedy McMahon is afraid of no one."

A chuckle.

"All right, Vince. See you on Friday."

Cena hung up the phone, his mind a maelstrom. One prominent thought, however, kept surfacing in his mind's eye.

_It's time, Jericho._

_It's time for us to finish this._

_Once, and for all._

_For honour._

_For glory._

_And justice for all._


	7. A Brief Interlude: I

**And Justice For All**

**Interlude I**

_**1st February 2012 - Wednesday - 7:35pm. **_

_You have heard by now._

Piercing cerulean orbs narrowed.

"Yes, I have."

_The news has spread._

"Most definitely."

_You have heard, and you will act._

"I will."

Fingers curled inwards, closing to form fists.

_The time has come._

_The time has come for you to come out of seclusion._

_The time for justice has come._

"Justice?" A shake of the head. Then, a whisper, "Justice? Is that what this is?"

_Would you call it otherwise?_

Silence.

Intense eyes flickered to the side, tossing brief glances at the manila-coloured envelope resting on a nearby desk.

_McMahon has grown old. Weak. Careless. Decadent. The time has come._

A hand reached into the envelope, fishing out various pictures of Vincent Kennedy McMahon engaged in questionable acts with a pretty, young redhead.

_These pictures will be your weapons, your instruments of justice. They will be the catalyst for McMahon's downfall, and for your ascension._

"Understood."

_You will become a legend. Your time has come._

"I know."

_Then assemble your troops. The time to strike draws close. The time for justice is fast approaching._

"No." A breathy whisper. "Not justice."

"Revenge."


	8. Chapter 7

**And Justice For All**

**Chapter 7**

_**3rd February 2012 - Friday - 7:35pm. **_

They got in with no problem.

The doormen had been instructed to let them in. After checking all of them for hidden weapons, the doormen ushered them into the building, keeping a wary eye on the group all the while.

The man at the forefront, bearing a baseball cap, and a 'Chain Gang' T-shirt, clutched a large, brown envelope in his left hand. He strode with purpose, eyes flashing with a grim determination. One could read the message in John Cena's slightly-slitted eyes, if one looked closely.

_Tonight_, they said. _Tonight, it ends. For good._

The fourteen men in Cena's group matched his stride with ease, their chins up, gazes directed forward. They knew what had to be done. They were called, and they had come. No whispering took place within the group. No murmurs, no hushed voices. No last minute back-up plan, no dreading the thought of what would happen if they lost. No, there was nothing to say. Whatever had to be said had already been said before they arrived.

"Cena! Over here!"

Cena halted, and turned to face a bald, muscular man. The man was motioning him over. Beside him, on a square table draped with a white tablecloth, rested a familiar golden tumbler, plastic white balls contained within.

Cena motioned his group over to the table. The man forced a smile as they came closer. His smile, however, grew genuine as he noticed the envelope in Cena's hand.

"Is that...I mean, are those-"

"Yes," Cena cut him off. "I've brought the pictures. They're in this envelope."

"Good, good. Now, I don't think you've been away long enough to forget what this is." The man jerked a thumb at the tumbler. "You all know the rules. One per person. No re-drawing."

Tommy Dreamer, who stood to Cena's immediate right, narrowed his eyes. "How," he said, "do we know that you haven't rigged these numbers?"

The man smiled. "I've been instructed to give your group the chance to draw your numbers first. A gesture of goodwill, from the boss, himself."

Dreamer took a step forward. "How do we-"

"Forget it, Tommy." Christian stepped up. "Even if the numbers were rigged, we wouldn't have a choice, either way. We're here, now. What matters is that we win this. That's all."

Dreamer sighed, and stepped back. Cena shrugged, and moved towards the tumbler. He inserted his free hand into the cylindrical, golden device, and withdrew a plastic ball. All the members of his group quickly did the same.

Everyone looked at their numbers in silence. Cena could read disappointment in some of his men's faces. Others, he noticed, looked slightly relieved. He looked down at the ball in his hand.

_Please._

He cracked it open, letting both halves of the plastic casing fall to the ground. He held the piece of paper up so that he could read it.

On it, large and clear, was the number **1.**

**

* * *

**

Cena burst through the curtains as his theme song hit. He winced slightly at the poor quality of the song, but continued down the aisle, nonetheless. He took the opportunity to survey the crowd. Half of them were cheering him. The remainder were jeering him. He raised his arm just in time to block an empty soda can that had been hurled at him.

_Just like old times, _he thought bitterly.

He slid into the ring, and quickly scanned the front row for his target. His gaze rested on a man in an Armani suit, a mixture of stubborn pride and vulnerability on his weathered face. He hadn't bothered with a disguise. He said that he wasn't going to. Cena had to admire his guts. Some members of the crowd were giving him dirty looks. Others were staring at him in confusion.

Vince McMahon nodded and tried for a small smile. Cena returned the nod and locked eyes with his former employer.

_We'll win this for you, Vince. Trust me._

Cena paced around the ring, awaiting the start of the Rumble. On a table near the timekeeper's seat, the envelope that he had brought in rested. A clipboard holding a small bunch of papers sat next to it. That was the ultimate prize. The contract for ownership of the WWE, and all of its assets. Cena had been given the chance to go over it before the Rumble. Everything had checked out. All the new owner had to do was sign it.

The curtains were suddenly thrown aside. Two of Jericho's black-clad thugs in mock security gear emerged, dragging a familiar, injured man in between them.

"Dave!" Cena couldn't help but cry out at the sight of one of his best friends. Batista's hands were bound behind him. There was dried blood all over his upper body. He didn't look well at all.

Cena watched as Batista was forced to sit at ringside, next to the timekeeper's seat.

"Dave! Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

Batista looked up, and threw Cena a weak, sad smile. _I'm sorry_, he mouthed. _I should have listened to you. I'm sorry._

"Don't worry. We're going to win this, and we're going to get you out of here. I promise."

Cena's theme song faded away. He turned to the entryway. He braced himself as an unfamiliar theme song played. Seconds later, his opponent charged down the aisle.

* * *

The crowd counted down as the timer hit ten seconds.

Cena didn't care. He was fighting for his life.

Two of Jericho's thugs were wearing him down. One had him in a sleeper hold, while the other delivered blow after blow towards his midsection. Out of the corner of his blurred vision, Cena could see Rey Mysterio and Rob Van Dam struggling with their own opponents.

A horn sounded, announcing the arrival of entrant number fourteen. Another of Jericho's thugs ran down to the ring, and hit Van Dam from behind.

Cena's team had already suffered a few losses. Tommy Dreamer, Christian, Kofi Kingston, and Ric Flair had already been eliminated. The men left in the ring were being severely outnumbered by Jericho's men.

At ringside, Vince McMahon looked on, grimly. His champions were losing the rumble, and the leader of the opposition hadn't even shown his face. Across him, also at ringside, Batista hung his head, forcing his eyes shut.

Entrant number fifteen provided some relief. R-Truth ran down to the ring, and immediately went to Van Dam's aid.

* * *

It was almost time for entrant number twenty to enter the Rumble. It was one of Jericho's thugs. He stood near the curtain, waiting for the horn to sound.

He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. He had been lucky to draw such a late number.

He peeked through the curtain. Cena was reeling, bruises all over his body.

_Good. All the easier it'll be for me to take him out._

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Irritated, he whirled around.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a large fist flying towards him.

* * *

The horn sounded. It was entrant number twenty's turn. A gigantic number **20** formed on the titantron.

The crowd waited in suspense. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Half a minute. Nothing. They looked at each other in confusion. No music played. No one walked through the curtains. The referees looked puzzled.

Eventually, they gave up waiting, and simply focused on the match.

* * *

Cena slumped against the ropes, exhausted. He had just, in a superb show of strength and endurance, eliminated entrants number twenty-eight and twenty-nine. He now stood alone in the ring.

All members of his group had been eliminated. It was all up to him now. He fell to his knees, panting. The thought of victory remained far away. It was made even more daunting by the fact that Cena knew exactly who was number **30 **was.

The countdown started for the final entrant. The horn sounded, and the arena plunged into complete blackness.

Another, more familiar countdown appeared on the titantron. Some crowd members rose to their feet, screaming praise and adoration for their _saviour._

A brilliant burst of pyrotechnics heralded the arrival of Chris Jericho.

Unlike his men before him, he didn't rush to the ring. Instead, he sauntered down the aisle, a permanent smirk on his face. He knew could he win. His only opponent left was a battered, tired, rusty, fool.

He slowly ascended the steel steps, and climbed through the ropes into the ring, his gaze fixed on John Cena. He watched, slightly surprised, as Cena pushed himself off his knees, and charged across the ring at him.

* * *

McMahon was on the edge of his seat.

His champion was his last hope.

He watched Cena charge at Jericho. He watched the two men grapple.

An Irish Whip. A Clothesline. Another Irish Whip into the turnbuckles. A Dropkick. Several wild punches. A couple of kicks, one to the midsection, to other to the head.

The lights were blinding. McMahon had to squint to see the action clearly. In the illumination, it almost looked as if two celestial beings were waging war on each other.

McMahon only rose from his seat during one critical moment. His eyes grew wide, as one man drew his opponent onto his shoulders in a Fireman's Carry.

McMahon gasped.

The man flung his opponent _over _the ropes, sideways. Both of the man's feet audibly hit the floor, and he stared up at the victor in shock.

* * *

Chris Jericho stared at John Cena.

"Well," he said, loud enough for Cena to hear. "This settles it, doesn't it? It's over."

Cena, on his knees _outside the ring_, did not reply. His eyes brimmed with failure. He hung his head.

_I've failed, _his gaze said. _I gave everything I had, and I lost. I'm sorry, Vince. Dave. I tried._

Jericho silently watched Cena as the clipboard with the contract was handed to him. Jericho flipped to the last page, where a dotted line stared up at him from the paper.

"This is a sign," he whispered to himself. "This is a sign. There can be no other. This company was _meant _to be mine."

He was startled, as was everyone in the arena, by the sound of the timer counting down from ten.

Everyone was confused. What was going on?

On the titantron, the number **20 **appeared. What was this? Was there one more entrant?

Jericho glared at Cena. "What is this?" he demanded. "Some kind of trick? I should've known that you would try something like this in case you lost. You're despicable, Cena."

The blank, confused look that Cena returned him only served to heighten his anxiety.

"All right!" Jericho shouted. "No more games!"

_Five._

"This company is mine!"

_Four._

"No one else's!"

_Three._

"Whoever you are..."

_Two._

"What? You think I'm scared? I'll face you!"

_One._

"No matter _who you are_!"

The horn sounded.

A brief moment of silence.

Then...

"_I hear Voices in my head; they counsel me, they understand..."_


	9. A Brief Interlude: II

**And Justice For All**

**Interlude II**

_**3rd February 2012 - Friday - 8:10pm. **_

Cold, furious cerulean orbs narrowed as they took in the disbelief and shock plastered on the faces all around the arena.

His theme song had faded long ago; the hushed whispers and soft murmurs that drifted through the crowd like smoke were obvious to his sharp ears.

He slowly scanned the arena until his gaze fell upon three distinct individuals, in turn.

Vince McMahon was at ringside, in a posh suit, looking every bit the regal businessman that he was in the past. The old man was on his feet, a mixture of emotions on his weathered face. Two stood out the most, though: shock, and confusion.

John Cena was on his knees outside the ring, holding a hand to his forehead where he had been badly cut during his desperate, final brawl with Chris Jericho. His mouth was agape, and his eyes were wide. He tried to rise to his feet, but simply fell to his knees.

_And now..._

His gaze moved to the lone man standing in the center of the ring.

_There he stands._

Chris Jericho.

_The pretender to the throne._

"I see him."

_Can you see it, boy? Can you see what is written on his face? In his eyes?_

He focused on Jericho's scowling visage. Visually peeling back the tough-looking exterior, it was easy to see what he was trying his best to hide.

It was primal. Familiar. Oh, so familiar. And oh, so delicious.

_Do you see it?_

"I do."

_What do you see?_

He licked his lips.

"Fear."


End file.
